


Maintain the Madness

by AStupidUserName420



Series: This be the Verse [1]
Category: French History RPF, French Revolution RPF, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Childbirth, Eat my heart Hilary Mantel, Eleonore Duplay deserves better, F/M, Gen, Grantaire Angst, Grantaire was NOT the lost Dauphin, Hurt No Comfort, The Robespierres deserved better, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23035792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AStupidUserName420/pseuds/AStupidUserName420
Summary: Eleonore Duplay believed in the Revolution. She believed in the Republic.She believed that nothing else could be taken from her after Thermidor. Her lover, brother-in-law and mother all gone within weeks of each other. What else could she possibly lose to the Revolution?But there was still more blood within her to pay to the Republic and further for her heart to break.XXXGrantaire has good reasons for being cynical in regards to Revolution. Year II stole his life from him before he was born. He's right to doubt the people, the ones who stayed inside when his father was assassinated. His death is one more line of tragedy for the de Robespierres.He doesn't tell the Les Amis of his parentage, because why should it matter to them? He disappoint them in different ways, instead.
Relationships: Éléonore Duplay/Maximilien Robespierre
Series: This be the Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1655533
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The only motivator I accept is spite. This is for you, Eleonore Duplay. History has done you dirty. And because I refuse to accept the headcanon that Grantaire would ever be the lost Dauphin. (See ending note for why in the Supreme Being this exists.)

Her mother was dead. 

The guard who delivered the news was impassive, his aged face portraying nothing as Eleonore held Elisabeth, dear little Babet, as she cried. The boy cried in the corner, cold and hungry, no doubt. 

Eleonore had no tears left to shed and could only make hushing noises and pet Babet’s hair. 

There was nothing else left for the traitors to take from her. 

XXX

Eleonore, in the blessing and curse that came from being the eldest, elected to keep as occupied as possible, pushing away any sentimentality as she cared for Babet and her son, keep in correspondence with Father and listened for news about how the rest of the Jacobins fared. 

When the sun set and the baby was settled between them, then Eleonore allowed herself a few bitter tears, hand pressed to her mouth.

_ Oh Maxime. Oh Antoine.  _

She mourned each in turn. Maxime, who would no longer read her poetry in the dappled sunlight of the forests. Antoine, who would never again sing opera and sweetly play the flute after dinner. 

She mourned for Phillipe, her sister’s dear husband and for the little son who would never know him and would only hear lies about his father…

She mourned for her mother, Augustin, Coulthon. Each one a tiny hole in her heart that threatened to burst and drown her under her own grief. 

But only at night.

During the day Eleonore was careful to keep her features calm, unfearful. She remembered how Simmone looked after Marat’s murder as if she stared into the abyss and now could unflinchingly challenge the conspirators to try to claim her life as well.

_ You have not taken him, _ it said,  _ for I still remain and his memory with me _ . 

One of the guards spat at her feet when Eleonore and Babet were outside. She looked into his face, as unmoved as marble.

_ I remain and his memory with me. You have not killed Robespierre because his C _ _ ornélie lives. _

XXX

Father was arguing for their release, having already gotten out of prison himself. The house and workshop had been ransacked, ostensibly “for evidence”. 

Eleonore had just barely been able to burn some of Maxime’s papers before they’d been arrested. She hoped they’d been the right ones.

The weeks and then months passed. The prison boiled and froze in turns.  _ Phillipe _ grew quickly despite Babet’s waning strength. He was an opinionated baby, crying, then laughing. As Eleonore held him, hushing him at night, watching the moon, she compared him to Le Bas. His curls, coming in lighter than Babet’s was all his father.

She distangled his fingers from her hair,  _ but his attitude was all his mother’s. _

Sometimes this made Eleonore think on Horace and wonder what had happened to him, but she always quickly shut the lid on this dangerous box of horror. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to forget Maxime’s face when he received the last missive from Annette Duplessis.

_ Respond to her, _ she urged him.  _ You did what you could for Lucile… _

The sea glass green of his eyes, magnified by his glasses and tears.  _ To what end? Explain that I’ll only kill one of her children? No. This is the last thing I can do for her. _

That was one of the hardest things about Maxime. He was so determined to throw himself on that blade, even when it served no purpose.

XXX

They’d been there for a little more than a month when Eleonore became ill for the first time. It hit her suddenly, forcing her to sit and breathe through her nose as the world became a spinning blur around her. Babet hovered and even managed to get her a cup of warm water.

“I’m tired,” she waved Babet off. “Just tired.”

Her sister shot her a dubious look but let it go when Eleonore was able to find her feet.

It was after it happened for the fourth time, this time making Eleonore spit bile, crouching in a corner of the prison yard, that she began to suspect what was happening to her. The dawning revelation made her head spin all over again. 

_ The weeks had passed in such a rush, she hadn’t been counting, but she’d missed her bleeding, hadn’t she? _

Eleonore’s heart clenched as she spread her fingers over her belly.

XXX

By some miracle Eleonore was slow to start showing. They were fed very little but she still had to begin subtly letting out her stays, carefully holding herself so if one didn’t look carefully they would miss the way her frame began to warp and change.

Eleonore’s father’s letters came sporadically. He let them know the tone of the town. Their enemies were still everywhere, eyes in every keyhole, ears pressed to every crack in the stone. 

She was woken by her own cry of terror at night, when she dream they ripped her baby out of her, the same faceless mass that had ripped Maxime away from her. She curled around Babet, sleeping propped up with Phillipe on her lap. Envy nipped at her heels.  _ Babet had her husband. She’d had mama. Eleonore would have neither. _

XXX

Both Babet and Father hovered. 

They perched around her, hunched over her, as if trying to keep Eleonore nested away from the world. 

She was  _ cloistered _ . 

The house was nothing but the cold skeleton of her childhood home. She used the excuse of her failing balance to avoid the upper floors, sleeping on the setee instead. 

Of her pains, Eleonore found it easiest to focus on her smallest aches. The baby making her light headed, her swollen joints, her aching breasts were all preferable distractions to the continuous ringing pain that was the all of the holes in the house. 

The closer she got, the larger and darker the holes seemed to become. Their darkness was a physical pressure pressed into her. Eleonore could hardly breathe for all the air the holes were draining from the house. 

It was raining when her labour began. The pain caught her completely by surprise. 

She was being squeezed in a clamp, her belly attempting to flatten itself against her spine as she screamed. It drove both breath and thought from her. Her world became nothing more than darkness and the cloying scent of blood. She was finally forced to cry. She sobbed through her contractions, gripping Babet’s hand. 

She wanted her mother. 

She wanted Maxime.

The night wore down on Eleonore, filing her pain into a sharpened point, till the baby finally deigned to make his appearance.

“He looks like him,” Babet said when she handed the boy over.

Eleonore drew her still trembling fingers over his face. He had wide green eyes, which stared at her steadily even as he cried until she succored him with a knuckled tucked into his lips.

She looked up at her sister, tears pouring down her face.

“You’re right,” she said simply. “He does.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte Robespierre hated the Duplays. To the point she flatly denied the very idea that Maximilien Robespierre would ever get engaged to Eleonore Duplay. I kinda get the feeling that the sentiment was more or less returned.

Finding Charlotte Robespierre was easier said than done. 

But it was eventually done. 

Albertine Marat was the one who was able to deliver her address, passed to Eleonore by her father.

He paused at the entrance of her room, looking over at the bassinet. “We could find a different way, Cornelia.”

Eleonore looked into the crib, where the boy was awake and staring at the shadows on the wall. He waved a clenched fist over his head, pulling absently on his own dark curls. Eleonore offered her finger, which he gripped. 

“There isn’t papa. I reappear in public, with a child?” _They were already calling her widow Robespierre_.

Maurice Duplay hesitated. “We could send him to the country, till he’s grown and bring him back as an apprentice. We can claim him as an orphan.”

It was like being dug into with a dulled razor. His pity and sorrow for her ruined her heart further. 

“Papa. Let him live. Let him be happy, away from the shadow of the guillotine.” Eleonore couldn’t help how her voice caught on the term. “He’ll be happier away from _us_.”

Maurice didn’t argue further. 

XXX

Babet reluctantly agreed to go and fetch Charlotte.

Both of them looked miserable by the time they arrived back. 

“One would think that the murder of both my brothers would free me from you and your family,” Charlotte said when she was shown up to Eleonore’s room. She was ragged looking, dress worn hard and hair limp. _But her head was still attached to her neck._ “I was sorely hoping to never set foot here again.”

“Wonderful to see you as well, Charlotte Carrault.”

Charlotte reddened, hands fisted in her dress. Albertine had shared how Charlotte had taken to hiding under her mother’s maiden name, avoiding the police and the public.

_Babet and Eleonore still couldn’t walk to the Tuileries without being spat at._

“What do you want?” Charlotte snarled. “Can’t I just be left alone?”

Eleonore was saved from answering by the sudden sharp cry from the crib. 

Charlotte Robespierre froze, paling under the freckles she’d shared with her brother. 

Eleonore stiffly rose from her desk and crossed the room to pick up the boy, shushing him. 

“It’s alright mon petit cher.” She clutched him close. “I won’t let your aunt shout anymore.”

Charlotte was clutching her neck and chest, breathing shakily. She shook her head. 

“No, no. It can’t be. He swore to me. _He swore_ ,” Charlotte began, choking and Eleonore cut her off. 

“Maxime lied to you,” she said simply.

Charlotte reeled as if Eleonore had slapped her. She staggered and clutched at her forehead, shuddering for a moment.

“He promised to me, _on our mother_ , he wouldn’t bed you out of wedlock. He promised that he wouldn’t risk it,” Charlotte muttered. She glared at her. “Did you seduce him?”

Eleonore felt a fury race through her. “No. He approached me, courted me properly and promised marriage.” She believed him, believed him still. Maxime wouldn’t abuse her. He’d been the very picture of a gentleman.

Charlotte Robespierre scowled at her but then her eyes landed on the boy and her expression rapidly crumpled.

“May I… may I look at him?” She asked softly. “Please?”

Eleonore nearly said no. She’d been insulting since the moment she’d laid eyes on Eleonore, always whispering to Maxime that Eleonore was beneath him. But the desperation in her voice made her heart soften and she handed the baby over. 

“Oh. _Oh_.” Charlotte began to cry. “He’s the very picture of Bonbon.” She rocked him in her arms, hiccuping sobs. The boy had stopped fussing, seemingly fascinated by Charlotte’s own misery. Eleonore swallowed heavily, her own tears threatening.

“I need you to take him to the country for me, Charlotte,” Eleonore said softly.

Her would-be sister in law looked up at her. “What?”

Eleonore took the boy back, staring into his eyes, trying to burn his face into her memory. “He’s not safe here. The Directory will find him. Or the assassins. If we lose the war, they’ll kill him then too. You remember what they did to Antoinette’s Charles.” She tucked him close, eyes closed, breathing in his milky baby smell. “Please Charlotte. I know you can’t stand me, but for the love we both shared for Maxime, for the last piece of him, take him into the country and find someplace he can live.”

She opened her eyes and saw that Charlotte had clutched her skirts, brow furrowed.

“Will he know you?” Charlotte asked. “His father?”

Eleonore swallowed. She thought about Horace, who would never know Camille or Lucile, or petit Phillipe, never to know Le Bas.

She slowly shook her head.

XXX

Charlotte absconded with the boy two days later, after night fell.

“He’s been fed,” Eleonore assured her softly, tucking the blankets around him. She was glad he was asleep so she didn’t have to look at him as she gave him away. “He should stay quiet.”

Charlotte nodded. With more gentleness than Eleonore would have credited her with before, she disentangled Eleonore’s hands from the basket, taking him from her. 

“We have to leave,” Charlotte said softly. “The carriage is waiting.”

Eleonore nodded, throat too tight for words. Charlotte gravely nodded to her, before slipping out the door. It shut with the same resounding _thud_ as the guillotine. 

Babet clutched her as Eleonore shook, breath coming in ragged gasps. She thought his coming had been painful, it was nothing compared to his leaving.

**Author's Note:**

> For the uninitiated: Eleonore Duplay was “rumored” to be the fiancee of Maximilien Robespierre, who depending on you ask is either one of history’s greatest monsters or tragically misinterpreted and the patsy of the excess of the Terror. She lived the rest of her life alone, wearing mourning black and she was called the widow Robespierre. Tragically little is known about her, but I’ve always been impressed by what we do know. She was a trained artist and did her own self portrait. Robespierre called her virtuous, which was basically his highest compliment. She seemed to be an intelligent and decorous young woman. I hope someday we get to find out more about her, but in general there doesn’t seem to be a lot of academic interest in her, especially compared to her contemporaries (ahem, Lucile Desmoulins). 
> 
> This started as an amusement when I realized that George Blagden’s R does share some facial similarities to Robespierre, eyes, face shape, taste in clothing. Then when I looked at Eleonore I realized he also looked like her too, hair color and texture, the nose. Then I even realized that Eleonore died right after the 1832 rebellion, on July 26th. My brain went oh it’s because she lost someone and broke her heart again. Then I remembered that the Les Mis fandom was assigning Grantaire to Capets and I went oh fuck that!! And so I wrote this. Et voila!


End file.
